


Clarity

by RhetoricFemme



Series: Clarity [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Clairvoyant!Marco, Hospitals, Jean plays the guitar, Jean went and got himself hurt, M/M, Marco has questionable dreams, Mention of Bertolt Hoover, Mention of blood, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:19:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all the years they've known one another, Marco's telepathy has been mutually exclusive to his and Jean's friendship. All of that changes when Jean has an accident that causes his life to pass before his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flecksofpoppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/gifts).



> So, one second I was listening to some music, and the next I had a flood of headcanons. And then the headcanons turned into just a little bit more.
> 
> This is for [FlecksofPoppy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy#_=_), whose 90's-loving butt I ran after to tell all of this to, who in turn encouraged me to write it out. Thanks, friend! I hope you like it. =D

For once in his life, Marco does not want Jean’s best.

Far from it, in fact. Far from where Jean’s weakening pulse now takes him to the silent comforts and private highs that he’s kept to himself throughout his twenty-six years. Not that anyone had been asking, exactly, but a certain level of discretion is required when one’s best friend possesses the unwanted burden of clairvoyance.

It might not be the stuff of grandeur, but it’s what Jean’s got. It matters less now as an adult than it had as a kid, when he’d preferred not to share his every last respite with his new (only) friend. Just in case things didn’t work out.

More than a decade of friendship and several years of living together later, the rule stands more out of habit than any fear of intrusion. Admittedly, it _is_ one less thing for Marco to attempt turning off at the end of the day. Be it from muscle memory or lack of judgment, he has Jean to thank for that.

Now, despite his most pressing efforts, the most poignant of those memories now make themselves available to Marco as this amazing life prepares to be too soon gone by.

He’s refusing this involuntary glimpse into Jean’s mind, his heart as it were, as much out of denial that this be Jean’s final gift to him, as for the years-old promise they made to one another. None of this was ever meant for Marco to see, anyway.

Especially not while rain water dilutes the flow of blood still trickling from the offensive gash in the side of Jean’s head.

The front tire of Jean’s messenger bike is still spinning, while the other lies crushed, detached and covered in mud to Marco’s side. In the face of this harrowing reality, it’s incredibly tempting to hide in the flow of memories now playing at the core of Jean’s mind.

At the very least, Marco admits, it was the benefit of a sixth sense that notified him of there being trouble in the first place. More than the sudden onslaught of rain right in the middle of Jean’s route; nothing someone of his speed, precision and caliber couldn’t handle, all of which Marco had confidence in.

The facts meant very little to him, however, once he found himself trusting the instinct that led him to pound pavement so fast he couldn’t be sure he’d even shut the front door. When it came to Jean, Marco hardly needed anything more than his own gut, anyway.

He’d like to think the clairvoyance was more a second opinion designed to confirm what years of learning Jean’s idiosyncrasies could already tell him. More realistically, though, the nerves and trepidation leading him to where Jean lay in the street amounts to far more than just Marco, himself.

Whatever. It isn’t worth fighting or denying when the truth is that all Marco really needs in life is now lying motionless on the cold, wet ground.

It seems unfair to break their promise now, to cave in and become privy to how it felt for Jean, a relatively smarmy kid while growing up, to seek evening solace by himself on a basement couch. There’s no excuse Marco can think of to be kneeling alongside his best friend, spitting out whatever fighting words come to mind while somewhere inside himself Jean recalls the solace residing within pirated anime tapes that haven’t been viewed in years.

It isn’t right to share the depth of satisfaction during Jean’s first time strumming out a coherent tune over used guitar strings; to compare it to the easy licks he creates from years of being inspired by the likes of Lou Reed, Robert Smith, or Radiohead.

More intimately, Marco  feels everything Jean had felt on the morning an old homeroom teacher sat a freshly enrolled Marco in the empty seat next to Jean’s. A desk left deliberately empty for any number of reasons—Marco was free to take his pick, and of course looked for the most innocuous explanation his middle school psyche had to offer. He’d been more intent on getting to know the boy whose curiosity and apprehension toward The New Kid had been just as palpable as his own.

Even then, rife with unbridled edge and a lack of direction, Marco found himself unable to deny that Jean held a certain charm. At least to him.

It isn’t long before the next image spills into Marco’s mind, only this one leaves him overcome by a familiar longing for passion and skin, and he can no longer tell if this is Jean’s private reverie or his own. God only knows it’s never been a reality they’ve shared until now, but damn, what a revelation it is.

He shouldn’t be here, Marco knows. It is what it is, however, and the admission brings with it a new resolution wherein Marco sees no course of action for Jean other than to _fight._

There’s new potential here, and a ferocity he’s so used to shoving into the dark now spurs Marco forward, only to reach the conclusion that there is only so much he can do.

He’s so intent on keeping Jean with him, shouting at the shallow rise and fall of his chest, that Marco misses it at first. It’s in the midst of Marco cursing over broken sobs that Jean comes to in a rather spasmodic coughing fit. Keeling onto his side, blood leaks from the corner of Jean’s mouth and he smiles up at Marco.

Awestruck, Marco silences himself only after making a plea out of Jean’s name once more. Not only does Jean take notice, but the sense of feeling and nostalgia has ceased its spin in either of their heads.

_That stubborn bastard._

The gesture, both sickening and the epitome of relief, coincides with a rather ominous clap of thunder, and Marco can no longer count on his own field of vision to define what is going on in front of him. He can, however, feel the unmistakable tug of his rain-soaked shirt, which Jean presently has in a white-knuckled grip.

It’s hard not to indulge him; Jean’s hand desperately wrapped around Marco’s clothing in an effort to keep him near.

Marco laughs, as it’s the first time in several agonizing minutes he’s been able to feel that same old energy he’s grown accustomed to. Were he lying in Jean’s place, it is without a doubt the thing from which he would draw his own strength and comfort.

He can’t help it, then, as the wail of an ambulance draws near, but to bring himself inches from Jean’s ear in order to make clear what he’s long looked for the right occasion to say.

Admittedly, it’s a lot. The words that fall from Marco’s lips offer little room for interpretation. Even if their present circumstances are emotionally capricious, at best, he anticipates Jean will hold him to all of this, later.

It’s its own kind of soothsaying, Marco supposes, when Jean wastes no time in validating his claims.

Despite an audible weakness to Jean’s voice, there is no mistaking it when he whispers back to Marco that he loves him, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief history of Marco and Jean's friendship, including a glimpse at some of their more personal interests and where they're heading in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'd just like to take this moment to thank you immensely for reading this. Also, I have no clue where this story is going. It started out as a little thing, but I think it's fully developed itself into its own little universe. At the moment, Clarity is a three-part story, but I think there's potential to leave it open-ended for various situations that pop into my head. 
> 
> If it suits your fancy, there are a few more notes at the end, more appropriate if you end up reading this entire chapter. <3

**Twelfth Grade**

“Are you screening my dates?”

“Not exactly?”

At this, Jean gives the kind of cross glare Marco’s only ever seen on his mother. He doesn’t know what else to call the insightful, but overcritical noises he resorts to once Jean starts listing off the names of a few various girls. Right, then.

“Dude.”

“I’m sorry! I’m not trying to pry, or anything. I can choose not to pry, _which I am_ , by the way. But I can’t as easily ignore energy.”

“I know.” Jean assures him, only a little salty at this point. “Just seems like you never like anyone I date.”

“I liked Mikasa. I still like her.”

“Yeah, well. Turns out I wasn’t as into that as I first thought.” Jean’s words drift off while he concentrates especially hard on the stringless guitar sitting in front of him. The Tornado (“It’s Tor-nah-do!”—) is his baby, and he knows Marco will forgive him for not meeting his eyes if this particular instrument is in his lap. While he’s half hoping Marco will just try to read his mind, what would really like is for Marco to just understand what it is he’s trying to say.

“I figured. If you can’t get into Mikasa, it’s probably saying something, right?”

_Oh thank God he gets it!_

“I guess.”

It’s a conversation that Marco would actually like to have, as he’s got a few of his own insights he’d like to offer. Unfortunately, there’s no mistaking that Jean isn’t entirely comfortable taking the topic much farther. Another time, then.

“You know,” Marco distracts. “If you paid as much attention to sports and activities, you could’ve rounded out that four-point college application.”

“You know, if you’d have went ahead and called Zackley on his bogus trick exam questions, you totally could’ve turned that three-point-eight into a four-point for your college application.”

“Smartass.”

“Damn right I am. Apparently the University of Trost thinks so, too.”

“Of course they do.”

They’ve spent the past few years occasionally discussing their plans for college and the seemingly infinite abyss that comes after. The closer to graduation they get, however, the more that novelty seems to slip away.

“You’re going to concentrate on abnormal psychology, then?”

“Um, I don’t know. I’ll find a niche eventually, but I guess I’m not ruling it out either. And I’m guessing you’ll end up teaching if you’re going for a physics degree.”

“Who knows?” Jean drawls while starting to wind strings around guitar pegs. “Probably be a professional student, but science is good. It’s solid.”

Handing him the next string, Marco nods in confirmation. “Solid is good.”

“Aside from the fact that science is just badass, it separates the legit from the bullshit.”

There’s a resolution to Jean’s voice that causes Marco to believe in the private considerations he’s long held at bay. It’s pretty ironic, he thinks, that if his clairvoyance is good for one thing, it’s knowing a fraud when he sees one.

It’s a private endeavor, though. A lifelong side project to catalog the people he’s begun to call aberrant for the decadence of their lies, and the gross abuse of honest faith and the memory of the dead.

The legit from the bullshit. Marco can’t help but imagine the depth of their friendship might have some degree of influence to cause Jean to say something of the sort. God only knows how protective Marco feels over _him_ , so.

“Just...” One look toward Jean, and Marco’s pinching the bridge of his nose before going on. “Before we go off to college, learn the difference between someone who likes you, and someone who likes the idea of you.”

“Quit pontificating, Marco. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”

He does, though. The realization hit each of them some time ago that college might entail more than a geographical distance. They’ve spent so much time buffering one another’s weaknesses and faults, that years have gone by since either realized he was doing it at all. It’s all hitting home, now, with the blindingly obvious fact that they’ll both be made to stand entirely on their own.

Marco can tell that beyond his immediate apprehension that Jean is very much looking forward to it.

“What’s going to happen to us?” he whispers.

“Independence that can only be gained by making mistakes and owning up to our shit.” Jean spouts off mindlessly. “All good things. I’m paraphrasing, but that’s pretty much what all of the guidance counselor pamphlets like to say.”

The Tornado is done being tuned, including a full-service sweatshirt-sleeve polish, and has since been laid against Jean’s bed. He doesn’t say another word when he joins Marco on the floor and bumps their shoulders together.

Both Marco and Jean are better at the objective stuff than they are the sentimental tacky crap. Granted, this approach usually requires one of them to play the practical role when the other man finds himself in need of being grounded. Tonight is different, though.

When Marco rests his head on Jean’s shoulder, he finds himself leaning right back into his best friend. He watches as the long sigh he breathes ruffles through Marco’s thick hair, and is barely able to hear when Marco implores once more about what will become of them.

“We’ll be fine.” Jean decides, his voice raising an octave with his contemplation. “Go out into the world for a while, Bodt. Just make sure you come home and report back to me.”

“Sure.” Marco answers. This time his voice is a little steadier, though his words are still barely audible. “You know, I’ve never been that interested in Mikasa, either.”

Marco’s voice isn’t any louder, but there is still no mistaking the insinuation buried inside his words.

 

**College, Start of Freshman Year**

Historically speaking, Jean is used to feeling on edge. Blame it on the ego that lies beneath, or an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. Odds are that a piece of truth lies in both conclusions, though Jean doesn’t really care. He simply prefers that if he’s going to do something, he be good enough to give people something worth looking at.

At college he’s able to do just that.

While there’s no changing his disposition as a smart-aleck, whip-smart kid, the University of Trost does afford him a wider pool of individuals who will tolerate Jean’s shit. Regardless of anyone’s personal opinion of him, there is no denying that on campus Jean begins to flourish.

Jean’s enthusiasm for curriculum earns him a spot in the university lab during the summer months; an opportunity he latches onto without a second thought, even if it involves finding an apartment in the city and picking up another source of income just to screech on by.

It’s nothing Jean can’t handle, especially when his new friend (Marco would be so proud) Connie lands Jean a commission-based gig as a bike courier in the city. It’s new territory, but Jean is a fast learner and an even faster pedaler. He’s able to repay the favor when he finds himself and Connie a decent apartment within walking distance of the university before the start of their Sophomore year.

It’s far above any of his previous expectations for his first year away from home.

Even if it doesn’t involve seeing very much of Marco.

That’s not to say any of it comes easy, but if Jean has learned anything, it’s that nothing worth standing by ever does.

 

**College, Mid-Way Through Senior Year**

The day Marco calls to tell Jean he’s graduating a semester early is a thrilling one, though somehow is no surprise.

“You’re staying in Trost for grad school, right?”

“Yeah, um.” At this point Jean can hardly stop smiling, and he scratches excitedly at the back of his head while hoping this conversation is going where he thinks it’s going. “I’ve actually already started some of the grad work.”

Marco goes on to detail his acceptance into University of Trost’s social psychology program, which he’s free to start over summer if he so chooses. He sounds happy, if not somewhat distant. Jean chalks it up to three years of some serious adulting under his belt, alongside the prospect of coming home.

“I can come back whenever, and wanted to know if you know where the good places are to look for apartments.”

“You’re coming back now? What about graduation?”

“What about it?”

“You don’t want to walk?”

“Walking across a stage once in front of a thousand strangers for high school was enough.  Do you even know how many people come to a Stanford commencement? They hold it in the stadium.”

“Right.” Jean realizes. That’s a lot of voices. A lot of frequencies that are no doubt impossible to turn off, and insanely difficult to sift through, at best. “Forget commencement, then. But Marco, listen.  I’ve got an even better idea.”

. . .

Jean skids into Connie’s doorway with enough speed that he should have at least an iota of concern for any impending whiplash.

“Dude, the hell?”

Babbling a mile a minute, Jean’s words all blend together as they spill out of the seemingly permanent smile that’s taken over his mouth.

“Real talk, Con, no guilt shit. How soon do you want to move in with Sasha?”

“Like yesterday? But I’m not just gonna—“

“—Great! You can move next week, cause I’ve got my new roommate!”

Connie’s forced to discern Jean’s words from across the apartment and through the just-slammed door. He has no idea where Jean thinks he’s going this time at night, but is certain to have heard him declare that Marco is coming.

“Well that escalated quickly.”

 

**Graduate School, Year One**

The first time Jean wakes to the sound of Marco screaming will always be the most upsetting.

There have been worse instances since then, whether that means Marco wakes louder and more frightened than the time before, or the rare occasion where a nightmare is particularly hard to wake him from.

But all of that pales to the sudden and ultimate feeling of helplessness Jean experiences when he realizes there will be times when his presence simply is not enough.

He’ll be damned, however, if he doesn’t try.

“Go back to bed, Jean.”

“Can’t, Marco. I’m already up.” Jean retorts lazily from his spot on Marco’s bedroom floor. He side-eyes his best friend, his roommate now of several months, who’s got his back pressed against the headboard while tired hands furiously rub at his temples.

“Besides,” Jean continues, “Tomorrow is my day off. I’ll do whatever I want.”

With that, Jean strums his guitar louder than he knows Marco is inclined to raise his voice during the middle of the night.

There’s a smirk hiding somewhere in the smile on his face, but it’s mostly overshadowed by a sweetness only people like Marco, Jean’s own mother, or maybe a professor or two have ever really seen. It’s the sort of perseverance typically found in a small child, all caught up on the drunken magic one finds in the belief that everything will turn out better if they just give it their all.

And so Marco lets Jean win. It’s been years since he’s been able to just lay around and listen to Jean play, and perhaps in humoring him Marco will be allowed a moment of peace, too.

There’s familiarity to the chords Jean immerses himself in, and before long Marco sinks further into the mattress, and lowers his hands away from his face. It’s an old comfort, this song. He can’t help, though, but feel the mood is a touch surreal, when conversations from recent months start to resurface within his mind as Jean begins to sing.

**“Show me! Show me! Show me how you do that trick!”**

_“What’s the matter? Didn’t anyone like you in California?” Jean teased._

_“No, they liked me pretty well out there.” Marco’s voice trails off in a way that suggests he doesn’t like to complain about something that isn’t inherently negative—what to someone else might be thought of as a blessing._

_“Mm. You’ve always made friends easily.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“You ever tell anyone? About how you can—“_

_“Nope.”_

_Jean doesn’t reply to this, knowing that the conversation has run its course. No wonder it’d been so lonely for Marco in California._

**“Spinning on that dizzy edge, I kissed her face and kissed her head…”**

_“So whatever happened to Bert?”_

_“Bertholdt and I broke up a while ago.”_

_“I figured.” Jean says, not with any degree of happiness. “Since you haven’t mentioned him in some time. It was bad?”_

_Marco lets go of a deep sigh, and it’s something that sounds akin to reprimand that isn’t meant for Jean so much as for himself._

_“He wasn’t entirely into me.”_

_“Then he’s an idiot.”_

_Marco forgoes telling Jean the entire story. He leaves out the part about hanging onto something he’d forcefully given the benefit of the doubt, all out of acknowledgment of Bertholdt’s attempt to override stronger feelings with otherwise good intentions._

_He won’t clue Jean into how long he’d held on by giving Bertholdt chance after chance to talk about the direction their relationship was heading. Or how he’d stopped believing in that placid smile enough to read into the situation in a way only Marco could._

_He certainly doesn’t plan on telling Jean about finding his boyfriend standing unreasonably close to their petite, blonde classmate Annie. Or how Bertholdt, despite having not made any improper advances practically glowed for her._

_Having opened for Bertholdt every window of opportunity imaginable, Marco had felt no guilt for his eventual anger, and when the shock of his actions had subsided, he’d remained unapologetic for any mysteriously broken windows in the immediate area._

_Marco is not proud, but he’s not sorry, either._

_“It’s fine, Jean. Can you imagine how it’d have eaten me up had I not forgiven him by now?”_

**“…that stole the only boy I loved and drowned him deep inside of me—“**

“You changed the lyrics.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Did, too. It’s ‘stole the only girl I loved.’ You said boy.”

“Ah. Whatever. Artistic license, Bodt. And girls are stupid.”

“Sashas’s not stupid.”

“Sasha’s not a girl. She’s Sasha.”

“I can think of several people who would beg to differ.”

“Connie’s opinion is the only one who matters. Okay. And Sasha’s.”

“Yeah.” Marco smiles. It’s the end of autumn, now, and in some ways it feels as though nothing has changed. Where he and Jean are concerned, there’s an indefinable brand of respect that coincides with a complete lack of guile. It’s taken years to build their inimitable rapport, and it occurs to Marco that one aspect is unlikely to exist without the other.

At least here, in this particular moment, Marco looks to the difficulties on the horizon with nonchalance, because if nothing else he has this friendship with Jean. It makes up for the fact that whether he likes it or not, sometimes it takes another person to ride things out until daylight. Just long enough to reinforce his overall trust in his own talent and discipline.

“You never mention your type, though.”

It almost seems an offhand comment, and for a second it pulls Jean out of his musical reverie.

“Hm?”

“What type of guys are you interested in?”

Jean takes a moment to respond. He passes the time by strumming The Tornado, though this time another song rises throughout the room. Marco recognizes it as another one from The Cure, though he’s reluctant to admit that he identifies it more with 311. Jean would be pissed.

“My type is… Someone worth my time.”

“Don’t be picky, now.”

Jean stays with the song, but exchanges the old tempo for something faster, stronger. “All I’m saying is dude’s got a lot to live up to. Also, he’s probably really hot.”

“Nice.”

“It is. And that’s _my_ intuition speaking, Bodt.”

Marco sees Jean his shit-eating grin, and raises him an obnoxiously saccharine smile.

“Whatever. I think I’m going back to bed.” Marco’s tone relaxes as he watches Jean’s fingers wrap around the neck of the guitar, noticing the ease with which Jean tempers his formerly aggressive sound. It’s an ideal image to fall asleep to when only an hour ago he’d woken unsure of what reality even is.

Nestling further into bed, Marco nods toward Jean’s precious guitar while pulling a blanket up over one shoulder. “Thanks for that.”

“Any time.”

A moment later, Jean is closing his own bedroom door behind him, only to think twice and open it again.

It’s anyone’s guess when Marco will fall back asleep, though if memory serves him Jean is sure that could easily be hours from now.

Drawing a blanket into his lap, Jean sticks a pillow behind his head, then proceeds to hum along to the music.

It’s entirely possible that he goes through the entire mental catalog of songs he knows how to play, all the while lingering on his favorites and losing track of time until finally catching first light on the other side of curtained window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Jean sings aloud is by The Cure, and is called _Just Like Heaven_ , and the song that he starts playing when Marco asks about the type of men he's into is also by The Cure. It's called, _Lovesong_. Jean does not sing the lyrics to this one aloud, but if you don't already know that song [maybe you wanna look the lyrics up.](https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tkt5mzopzyirm7fepap6nit7yii?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics&u=0#) o.o
> 
> As for **Bertholdt**. I started this fic right before Chapter 84 came out, and I'm a bit hurt by certain events right now. Say what you want about him, there was an intricacy and heart to Bertholdt that if you want, I'll go into elsewhere. Regardless of everything, _Marco--an intelligent, not naive person--always gave Bertholdt a chance, and wanted to extend him the benefit of the doubt._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having made it to the hospital, the blurred influence of pain medication is the only thing to separate Jean and Marco from a discussion about how they really feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... Totally didn't plan this chapter. I'm supposed to be studying. This was my treat to myself, and I hope you like it as much as I do. :)
> 
> Major thanks to [Quartetship](http://quartetship.tumblr.com/), who read part of this for me, in doing so improving it significantly. Thanks, friend!

It’s gentle fingers running through Jean’s hair that brings him to, though the blessing is soon lost to muddled reality and what amounts to a cacophony of uninvited voices.

His last memories involve the chrome of a car bumper, and what can’t be right—the taste of blood and the sound of laughter in the pouring rain. Regardless, he recognizes something has gone wrong when he finds it near impossible to move despite the dull roar of pain combing through his body. What’s more, is the mingled voices nearby belong to a set of people he just can’t fathom being in a room together.

“—can’t thank you enough for being here.”

“It’s my job, Bodt. They pay me to be here.”

“Ouch! That’s cold, Dr. Ackerman.”

“Quiet, Blouse, or I’ll sign you off of my service.”

“Then it’s been an honor, doctor, to work alongside such a talented if not also bristly little teddy bear such as yourself.”

Were it in Jean’s realm of physical capacity, he be laughing without reservation right about now. He’d no idea that he and Sasha had anyone in common outside their circle of friends, and loved knowing that Levi Ackerman had apparently found someone else whose spry attitude could match his own.

“I’m going to infect you with Sars.”

“You’re never going to call me Sasha, are you?”

At the very least, Jean recognizes that at present he’s laid up in the hospital, and knows aside from the two bickerers that Marco is in the room. Nor has he forgotten just how ill the mere thought of hospitals has always made Marco.

It’s great, he thinks, having no question of Sasha and Dr. Ackerman’s professional conduct, and trusting in their ability to commandeer the energy in the room. He already feels a sense of relief when Marco breaks into the conversation with lighthearted thoughts of his own.

“Jean’s going to throw a fit when he finds out you were his surgical nurse.”

“I know, right?!” The amusement is unmistakable in Sasha’s voice. “I’m going to let him think I’ve seen him naked.”

“I’m thrilled to see how easily you’re willing to take a complete shit right over top of your Hippocratic Oath.”

“Come on, Dr. Ackerman. I’m the best nurse on this side of the hospital. And you don’t have any fun, do you?”

“No.”

There appears to be an awkward pause at this, and while not entirely intending on it, it also becomes the point at which Jean lets everyone in the room know he’s at least awake enough to hear the goings-on around him. Coughing nearly proves too much a task once Jean notices that his throat is complete desert.

“Finally, Kirschstein.”

Jean’s mouth is too dry to grant him discernible words. Despite the residual drugs running through his system, he’s still able to feel a sense of mortification when a straw is lifted to his lips, and a harsh voice makes a gentle demand that he try and take a drink.

“Thanks, Dr. Ackerman.”

“Don’t thank me, Kirschstein. I need you hydrated enough to tell me why the hell I nearly made it through an on-call shift unscathed, not only to come into this shitty place on what was almost a day off, but why I had to call and tell my husband that his favorite former student was the reason he’d be coming in right after me.”

“Um. My bad.”

“Try again.” The doctor informs him while looking over various areas of Jean’s person, pausing to lift the gauze protecting a small incision across his abdomen. “It’s the asshole who thinks speeding around city corners in the rain, only to run off after he hits some kid on a bike is no big deal.”

“Seriously?”

“The good news is you’ll be fine. You’re going to be sore for a few weeks on account of eating the front bumper of a Mercedes, so take it easy. Also, I took your spleen. So no more stupid shit.”

“Challenge accepted.”  Jean smiles, too tired to recall much else other than the comfort of being in pretty good company. Marco is standing cross-armed at the head of what is an otherwise uncomfortable hospital bed, while Sasha lets him know that both Connie and his mother have been through, and are on standby should he need anything.

As for Dr. Ackerman, there really couldn’t be anyone better. Years have gone by since Jean has seen the man, though he can recall several occasions when the surgeon had deigned to make an appearance in the name of education to his husband’s classroom.

Erwin Smith, then head of Saint Sina Academy’s science department, now controversially touted as one of the school’s toughest, yet most effective principals to date. It works in Smith’s favor that the student body largely favors him, be it for his friendly demeanor, his Grecian good looks, or the no-nonsense approach he infamously takes within the classroom.

Jean had always got on well with Mr. Smith, who in turn appreciated Jean’s concentration on academics, and did all he could to encourage his interest in science.

As for Dr. Ackerman, well, Jean was probably the only student in any of Mr. Smith’s classrooms who simultaneously buckled down on himself while running his mouth in a way that gave the adults around him a run for their money.

If he were being completely honest, Levi didn’t have it within himself to do anything other than be impressed and amused by the kid.

At the moment, Jean realizes that Dr. Ackerman is talking presumably to him, more accurately talking _at_ him, but he fails to catch most of the words. The speech ends with a squeeze to Jean’s shoulder, and a grumbled confession of gratitude for Jean being okay, as well as a promise that Erwin will come by some time before he’s to be discharged.

Jean mumbles his goodbyes, and accepts when Sasha gives him a kiss after pushing something into his IV before following Dr. Ackerman out the door. Marco is the only one left now, and though Jean doesn’t plan on doing anything crazy like staying awake, he prays that Marco doesn’t plan on going anywhere, either.

At this point, Jean isn’t entirely sure what there is to say, so he decides to go with the first observation that comes to mind.

“Where’d you get that shirt?”

“Your mom.”

“So’s your face.”

At this Marco can’t help but laugh, though he works to keep his voice quiet while gradually lowering his weight onto the side of the bed.

“She brought sweats for you for whenever you get out of here, and brought me a change of clothes, too. Apparently you left a ton of old clothes at your parents’ house.” Marco states while inspecting the faded X-Files tee that doesn’t look like it’s left its dresser in ages.

He doesn’t mention the smears of blood left all over his own shirt; the ones Jean had unknowingly made in an effort to keep Marco from going anywhere, even after the ambulance came. As if leaving him were ever an option.

“It was raining pretty hard.” Marco whispers. “I got soaked.”

“You haven’t been home.”

“Nope.”

“Moron.”

“I’ve got a variety of sleeping options and thanks to Sasha, an endless supply of subpar food at my disposal. You’re here. No point in going home when everything I need is right here.”

“Mm.” Jean presses his head further into the pillow, seemingly dissatisfied with each attempt to search out some comfort. “I have a headache. Too much talking going on.”

Marco snorts obnoxiously.

“Take a nap, Jean.”

“You’re going home for a while?”

“Probably not.” Marco deliberates for a while, hoping Jean is too groggy to recall Marco’s immense dislike of hospitals. Too much talking going on, indeed.

“Okay.” Jean lets his eyes slip close, the narcotic Sasha had pushed into his IV apparent by the increasing slur to each of his words.

Sighing, Marco drags a chair alongside the bed, about to settle in, himself. He has Dr. Ackerman to thank for the private room—what feels for the moment like a safe space that belongs as much to him as it does Jean.

Marco finds himself sitting upright once more when Jean makes a concerted effort to ask something of him, and ends up somewhat shocked at what he hears.

“Rub my head?”

“Hm?”

“Like you were ‘fore.”

“You remember that.”

“Mmhm.” Jean doesn’t bother to open his eyes this time, though he smiles and yawns in a way that immediately endears him to Marco. “S’was two minutes ago. It was nice.”

The two minutes Jean speaks of is actually closer to half an hour, but at a time like this who can bother counting?

“Sure.” Marco agrees, leaving the chair altogether to better massage with both hands.

“The car was grey. Probably why I didn’t see it.”

“It came speeding around a corner. That’s why you didn’t see it.”

“Oh yeah.” Jean sighs, then goes quiet for a moment before going on. “I’m remembering more of what happened now.”

“Okay.” Ten fingers, trail through fine blond hair, and though with every right to be nervous, find themselves in control of the situation before stopping to rub gently at two pounding temples. “We can talk about it later, if you want.”

“D’you?”

“Do I what?”

“Want?”

Here Marco experiences an impulse to choose his words carefully. It’s the same impulse that only hours ago was driven by a selfish motivation to keep Jean with him for as long as possible. Marco can’t help but sound wistful as he truthfully answers, and he realizes more than ever that he has no regrets over going for broke while his best friend bled in the rain.

“Yeah, Jean. I do want.”

“Cool.”

Marco can’t help but wonder if Jean will even remember this conversation in the morning. Or what the odds are of him waking in the middle of the night to find himself lucid, aware of _everything_ while Marco sleeps fitfully beside him in a plastic-cushioned chair.

“Go to sleep, Jean.”

Marco peeks in vain, he realizes, when he sees the gentle slack of Jean’s mouth, and the now relaxed hold Jean keeps on the side of a time-worn hospital blanket.

Good.

Rubbing Jean’s head for a while longer, Marco is momentarily apathetic to what Jean or anyone who could walk in might think when seeing him standing there.

It feels good taking care of someone he loves. Whatever the brand of that longstanding affection might be is neither here nor there, Marco believes, especially when he’s aware of just how transformative love generally can be.

After a while, the gesture has been established as a larger comfort for Marco, himself. It isn’t much longer before he feels himself begin to nod off, and he ends their contact with a gentle squeeze of Jean’s hand.

Faint though it may be, Marco is more than surprised when Jean’s hand squeezes back.

Settling deep into the chair, for now Marco is content to watch the steady, reliable, rise and fall of Jean’s chest.


End file.
